


Untitled (for now)

by Southbroom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Feels, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Love, Politics, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southbroom/pseuds/Southbroom
Summary: The wrath of the Great War has made it’s way down to King’s Landing. Brienne and Jaime meet again, except his time, on opposing sides of the battlefield.





	1. After the Bronzegate

**Author's Note:**

> I have been writing this for quiet some time now - since before the start of Season 7. Therefore it diverges from canon from s06e10.
> 
> I hope to turn this into a multi-chapter story but it is going to take time. *groans in shame* Please stick around and try not to assault me. I will try and upload as fast as I can
> 
> Please don't get turned away but the 'Major Character Death' and 'Grief' thing. It is going to happy ending and no one that you don't want to die is going to die, okay? :)

He lifted his shield, pushing it in against his chest to secure the straps around his stump. He then brought it to the level of his eyes, prowling at the world from behind the rim of the weapon.

It was an ugly thing. Copper-coloured and dented in too many places to count. It bore no sigil, nor blacksmith's mark, which lead Jaime to believe it came from the other side of the war, or even the other side of the Narrow Sea.

Perhaps it had belonged to the Targaryen girl's army of slaves. Or freed slaves, rather. What was it that Qyburn called them? No, he could not recall. 

Jaime could not remember much. He had woken an hour back lying face-down mud. He was hit by an agonising pain in his head. It felt as if someone had bashed his skull repeatedly with a mace. 

As he reached to touch where he thought the wound would be, it occurred to him that he was missing his golden hand. 

But that was not the only thing Jaime was missing. Instinctively his hand ran down his sides for his sword. Scabbard, belt, waterskin and Widow's Wail all gone. Blind panic overcame him. He stood, only to fall back into the muck. His legs seemed to bend underneath him from exhaustion.

He was on outskirts of King's Landing. The landscape was populated by fishing villages that decreased in size as the sides Blackwater bay drifted apart. Jaime thought that he could see the Red Keep on the horizon, but he did not believe his instincts. It could be a sea cliff, or another village sticking out from the mist. Besides, he always did have a rubbish sense of direction and decided to give attention to his immediate surroundings.

The village he found himself inside must have been a fishmonger’s port of sorts. Or at least that had been the settlement’s purpose. The more striking feature was that it had been raided, raped and recently burnt - burnt by the bitch's dragons. 

He never believed the stories. Dragons had been the subject of legends told by drunken soldiers and the tall tales in children’s books. They had been laughable stories that Tyrion used to share at the dinner table. Funny little fables that put a smile on the little idiot's face when he way a boy. If his brother was truly at the the Dragon Queen side, Jaime hoped that Tyrion did not think of Dragons as endearing little stories anymore. 

It was the most terrified Jaime had ever been in his entire life. They heard the screech that came from the beast's throat long before they saw it. And when they saw the beast… Jaime knew almost at once that they had lost the war. 

His men had been roasted as if they were lines of ants. Well trained and ordered warriors, killed as if they were ants on pavement. Jaime shuddered at the memory of scorched Lannister troops that decorated the Bronzegate.

The same had happened to the fishing village. All was either burnt or still smouldering. At least there are no more dragons in the sky, he thought. He turned is head up in suspicion, listening for those great screeches he had heard on the battlefield.

Jaime smelt something vaguely resembling a cooked meal and rushed toward it, his stomach briefly overpowering his logic. 

What he found was a square of burnt bodies in front of what used to be a building. It took him a few moments to notice that the smell he thought was food turned out to be their cooking meat. With a sharp, stinging horror Jaime was instantly sick. Nothing came out. He ran as quick as his weak legs could carry him, panic staining his eyes. 

Why, he pleaded, What possessed you to create something so destructive? He asked the Gods, briefly remembering that he did not believe in their existence. No, he thought, If beasts like those roam the earth, there are surely Gods above my head… Gods sent to burn me and my sister into oblivion for our unspeakable sins.

It took a good few minutes before Jaime was ready to open is eyes again. He struggled to his feet and rubbed dirt from his face and hair. He head had an one residing thought: food. If he did not eat soon, his legs would seise to carry him. 

He knew that he would not find food in the ashes and embers, so Jaime walked on the edge of the town, away from the smells. He had hoped to find a pig pen along the road, or the remains of some inn that would provide scraps. He would give up his shield for a bowl of food - even his breastplate. Maybe even his helm or boots. His stomach was so hungry that a few blisters under his feet seemed a fair trade.

But the woods looked barren - as dead as the town was. War had a destructive quality about it which always confused him. All seemed to flee in the face of bloodshed, and steal and beg and eventually die.

The only luck he had was the discovery of a small dagger inside a cottage. He lifted the blade up with his good hand. He had not a clue to it’s original purpose, but he knew it was not for combat. It was near rusted but looked like it still had an edge. It would serve him well, for something was surely better that nothing. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a sword.

Jaime staggered out the building. His arm was losing strength from carrying the shield and the relief and hope he had gotten from the dagger inside the cottage was gone. It looked pathetically short and didn’t even glint in the harsh daylight. 

It was near the water where Jaime heard the voices. Two men on a dock arguing over boxes. Their red leathers immediately let him think it was his men, but upon listening to them he failed to recognise their tongue. Jaime could not tell if it was Valyrian or Dothraki or something else. But the uniform they wore was defiantly not their own; and judging by the cautious way they acted, not the boxes either. 

He lurked behind a wall, watching them load supplies onto a sailboat. Where would the men sail to? Smallfolk often sailed the length of Blackwater Bay to trade with the people of King’s Landing. But King’s Landing was mostly deserted and closed off by his darling sister. Perhaps they were going to wherever Daenerys Targaryen had set up camp. He was sure that the men would earn more than a few gold dragons if the sold their boxes of firewood and hay and food. War called for desperate times.

Jaime waited patiently for both men to travel a distance from the supplies before made a beeline. He was very close, but still hidden from the foreigners. He gritted his teeth in anticipation, ready to snatch a bagful of hardbreads. Then he heard the lament across the water. 

“Zaldrizes! Rhaegal!” One of the men called and fled under the nearest roof. 

Jaime did not need an invitation. He sprinted into a stone cottage and gently closed the door. The little he had learnt about dragons on the battlefield is that they killed upon sight. Anything below them that moved they killed. And a loud noise was sure to draw the attention of the beast, so he took extra care in sealing the door without causing attention.

Jaime heard the great flapping of the beast’s wings pass over the roof. He sighed in relief when the sound faded to nothingness and the men on the dock started talking again. He restructured his plan. If he could get around the cottage where he hid in now, then he would manage to steal the hardbreads and the handsome spear that rested against the dock. Two crows with one arrow.

Jaime moved to the door, eager to move fast but hesitant to make a noise and give himself away. He had is hand on the doorknob and itched to press down-

Then the hands closed around his throat.

He grunted, cursing himself for being so loud, and then started struggling out of the grasp of his attacker. He pushed the man’s body into the hard stone wall and smashed a crate in the process. But his attacker had the upper hand of being well-fed, and perhaps being taller and stronger than Jaime. He got shoved chest-first into the ground. Jaime’s joints snapped at the force of the blow. He squirmed in apprehension of what the attacker would do with once he was fully trapped. Then Jaime got an idea.

He jabbed the dagger as hard as his useless left hand would allow into their thigh. 

The attacker wailed and Jaime managed to throw the body across the cottage. He felt relieved and smug until he recognised the wail. He knew exactly when and where he heard that before. At the bloody mummer’s camp in the Riverlands on the night that he had lost his sword hand.

The attacker hollered in pain again and turned away from him when he approached her.

“Brienne! Brienne of Tarth?” he asked. Jaime removed his helm and rushed to her side.

“Wench!” he cried out in disbelief. “I am so s-“

“By all seven gods, get off, Lannister scum!”

She shoved him and this time he was the one flying across the room.

“Its me.” he looked affronted, gesturing to his face. He wiped a sleeve over his nose in case she did not recognise him.

For the slightest moment she squinted before whispering: “Jaime?”

He approached her, but she pushed him off again, looking angry. “What possessed you to do that?”

“I didn’t know it was you, wench.” he said in amusement. “Gods is it good to see your face.”

She scorned. “Do you just go around giving people fatal wounds without knowing their identities?”

“You did exactly the same bloody thing! Strangling a man-“

“I did not intend to kill you!”

He stared at her. “That is not going to be a fatal wound.” he said seriously, looking at the dagger still stick out upright from under her tasset. “Gods… I need to help you.” 

“You will do no such thing. Go and call the men on the dock-“

“The men!” Jaime remembered. He jumped up, sneaked out the door, only to find the foreigners half a league away on the sailboat. 

“Bastards!” He called out to them. “My lady needs to travel with you! She is injured!” The men looked at him confused for a moment and then started laughing, muttering things in their language. 

“Are they gone?” Brienne demanded once he was back. He gave her a look.

“That was my only way back to camp!” She said forcefully, in full-wench stubbornness. “I swear to you, Ser, by the gods. You really have no possible idea the magnitude of problems you…” she tailed off, distracted by his palm and stump on her body. 

“Do shut your pie-hole, wench. I will get you back to wherever you need to go.” he said dismissively, “…After I help you clean this up. But first, do you have any food? I have not had-” 

“In my saddlebag.” she said, “Its - rations. Dried beef and oats.” she added apologetically. 

“Any sustenance will do.” he said, tearing a piece of beef off with his teeth. His eyes fluttered closed with savouring the taste. Then, he sat beside her and started tearing away the fabric around the dagger. The wound was leaking deep red blood and Jaime did his best to keep his face straight. Her brow furrowed in worry.

“Do you have a horse?” he attempted to distract her.

“Died at the siege of the Castle Bronzegate.”

“You were at Bronzegate too?” he asked, and a silence stretched in the cottage.

“I saw you there.” she said softly, thinking back to the battle.

The front line of the Dragon Queen’s army consisted of Dothraki bloodriders - the most fierce warriors that Brienne had ever seen. But it was useless as the warriors were useless against the Queen Cersei’s wildfire. 

It was cunning and not in the slightest way an honourable way to die on the battlefield. Malakho, an older Dothraki bloodrider, had told Brienne that any man who killed with cunning weapons of fire was undeserving of the honour of fighting in war. “It is know.” he had added bitterly. 

The Bronzegate was Brienne’s second battle - her first being only a few months prior at the battle of Casterly Rock. It was a terrible thing, war. Brienne had often seen the effects of war on the land and its people; but really seeing face-to-face combat (and on such a large scale) was something else entirely. 

She had lost her Pod, Brienne recalled miserably. She remembered looking up from the bloodshed and not seeing her loyal squire anywhere in sight. She had not seen the boy since, and was still sick with worry. And if she was one of the few to survive the Bronzegate, Brienne doubted her humble and unhandy squire would have pulled through.

At the start of that Bronzegate there had stood a line of red Lannister commanders on a hill. The tallest of them all had been on a white stallion, his golden shoulder plates glinting in the sunlight. Brienne reluctantly became aware that the man in front of her was not at all her friend.

Jaime tied a length of linen around her upper thigh in order to stop some of the blood flow. He worked awkwardly, although admittedly skilfully with only one hand. 

“Bite onto your teeth.” Jaime advised, and Brienne did. She did not have time to process what he was doing until he pulled the dagger out of her leg. 

The open wound was not overly large and not deep either, but it would not stop shedding blood. Brienne vaguely remembered her old master-at-arms explaining the weakest spots on a man’s body. The eyes, the heart, the groin… Somewhere on that list had been the thigh, for the thickest river of blood ran down the front of the leg. 

She helped him to tighten the knots and the bleeding grew less. 

“Where did you say the water was?”

“Saddlebag.” she hissed, the first sign of weakness she had shown throughout his work. 

Jaime gently poured the waterskin out onto her. He cautiously wiped her thigh, revealing the white skin underneath the blood. 

“I am sorry.” he repeated, meeting her eyes. “I really hope this works. It is not exactly my wish to see you die.” he said sheepishly. 

She felt herself flush, overwhelmed with the contact and the intimacy of the situation. Sensing her discomfort, he backed away. The Kingslayer was clearly not her enemy either.

“Why are you here?” she said suddenly. Last time she spoke to her commander they were all under the impression that the Kingslayer retreated back to his sister in the Red Keep. 

“I woke in a village about three leagues away from here this morning. I do not know how I got there in the slightest. The last thing I remember was the… the dragons.”

“The Battle for the Bronzegate was five days ago.” Brienne informed him, astonished that he could be knocked out for five whole days. Then again, she thought to herself, Lannisters lie.

“Your army is in tatters. The Dragon Queen offered to spare your soldier’s lives if they bent the knee. Those who refused got exicuted.”

He swallowed heavily. 

“After the Bronzegate,” Brine continued, “We were assigned to check the surrounding area for refugees or outlaws. I was out getting supplies for camp. That sailboat was the only way I could get out of here.”

“And back to the Dragon Queen?”

“I was getting food those starving at base camp. And yes, for Queen Daenerys.”

“Starving?” he snorted, “No. You can go find the meaning of the word in King’s Landing.”

“If Queen Cersei laid down the castle two moons ago, no one would be starving.” Brienne pointed out, aware of the potential offence in her words. 

He sighed. “Winter is here. Everyone is starving.” he said, taking another bite of the beef from her bag. 

She watched him eat, thinking to herself that he himself looked like a hopeless cause. Half his armour was missing, revealing stained red leather undergarments. His gorget was completely gone and it exposed his bare sun-speckled neck. Jaime seemed even thinner than he was in the bath at Harrenhal, and weaker. Yet even through the dirt on his face his strange green eyes still considered her with the same curiosity as the last time they had seen each other. 

They were on opposing sides of the war back then as well. She had told him that honour would compel her to fight for Sansa’s kin - and to fight him if it came to that. I should he fighting him now. He is the enemy’s commander. But he sat gazing at her, she knew that that was not going to happen. Not with him dressing her wounds and now sharing her food. 

Brienne realised then that she was not going to go anywhere any time soon - at least not without help. 

Her wound might be dressed, but the white linen was slowly turning red again. She needed a maester, and fast. It would do no good making being honourable now - as it was survival. 

Still, she thought, The Kingslayer could steal my food and leave me here to die. 

But he was Jaime, another voice said. Brienne looked hopelessly at him. She had to be careful. He might whisper sweet words now, but he remains a Lannister. He remains the Kingslayer. 

“The Wolf and the Dragon.” he said, pointing at her chest. On her black and navy armour was the engraving of Tarth’s sigil of starbursts and moons. On either side was a black dragon and a white direwolf: clear symbolism of the oddest alliance to grace the seven kingdoms. He still remembered how Cersei had laughed when Qyburn told her. She though it was a jape - the bastard of Winterfell who wed the runt of House Targaryen. 

“What happened to: ‘I don’t serve the Starks’?”

“I do not serve the Starks.” she repeated.

“You mean to tell me Sansa Stark is not a Stark?” he chuckled at her stubbornness, “That is thick, even for you, Brienne.”

“My Lady Sansa was taken by the Others.” she said in a monotone.

“The Others?”

“The Great War crept down to Winterfell after I left to help Queen Daenerys claim King’s Landing. We stopped receiving ravens from Winterfell-” she faltered, her eyes suddenly dark, “Last I heard King Snow is fighting the White Walkers at the Twins. My Lady is dead. Littlefinger is dead. The Wildlings are dead. The North is no longer in the possession of men, but in the hands of the Night King.”

“You cannot honestly believe those Northern superstitions.”

“Superstitions?” She looked affronted. 

“Have you ever seen a White Walker, wench?”

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” 

Jaime’s mouth opened and closed. For once, it was her clever words that left him speechless. Her round, bright eyes seemed to see into his head. Her eyebrows raised in defiance. 

The nightmare of beasts with blade-like teeth and blazing breath darkened his mind - everything about them defying his imagination. Jaime supposed the idea of walking corpses could actually be a realty. 

“The Twins, you say?” Jaime’s eyes widened. If the the wench’s tales were true, then only old Walder Frey’s bridge separated the monsters in the North from the South.

Brienne was surprised that he had no knowledge of the Others. News of the loss of the North had arrived much earlier than five days ago. Did his sister not have spies everywhere, just as Varys did? Or was she keeping the information from Jaime on purpose? 

“Yes.” 

They fell into another silence - both of their heads filled with apocalyptic thoughts. 

“I need to get you to a maester.” Jaime announced, “Where is your the Dragon Queen?”

Her eyes narrowed in distrust. 

“I wish not to plan an attack, wench. You said yourself that my army is non-existent. I am done fighting. The war is lost on at least one side and I do not wish for it to become two.”

“They will kill you.” she said. “You put on foot into her camp and all three her dragons will blast you dead.”

“Tyrion would never do that.”

She looked at him doubtfully. Jaime was misjudging just how ruthless Queen Daenerys was. He was also unaware of just how many leagues away they were from the Dragon Queen. 

“Look… I am incapable of causing more destruction. I have no army. My sister lies rotting behind the walls of the Red Keep. I am maimed.” He raised his stump, “I cannot kill you if I tried. Much less so your Queen. I only wish to return you to the camp, and then to speak with Daenerys. Consider it a debt paid for ruining your leg. And Lannisters always pay their debts.”

It was a long time before Brienne decided to nod her head, and even then her mind was torn in two. Jaime smirked at her when she agreed, a boyish one-sided grin sweeping over his face.

“She demand of you to bend the knee.” Brienne enforced. 

“And so I shall.” Jaime said, not sure if he was trying to convince the wench or himself with his words.


	2. The Dragon Queen

“Who goes there?” a voice questioned as they reached the gates of the castle. 

“I have come to return Brienne of Tarth to the Dragon Queen.”

“Brienne of Tarth?” A thick foreign accent obscured the pronunciation of her name, but the man did not question Jaime’s identity. He smirked at their stupidity.

“We know no ‘Brienne of Tarth’ here.” said another man. Jaime’s brow furrowed.

“Brienne of Tarth, the Maid of Tarth, this woman here beside me. She is a knight and warrior of your queen’s army, previously pledged to your king’s sister. Lady Brienne fought beside your queen at the battle for Casterly Rock. And at the Bronzegate. She was out gathering supplies for the people of this camp when she… got injured.”

There was again no answer and Jaime gave Brienne a look. Her jaw tightened in answer, letting him know that she was as unimpressed with the soldiers as he was. 

Brienne had been in a foul mood for the past four days for their traveling. Her injury left her in a permanent state of frowning. If it wasn’t for this blessed donkey, Jaime thought. He was sure the cold would have taken them the two of them - their bodies and their spirits both - if they did not come across the creature.

The mule proved to be an exceedingly clever investment. In between the burnt towns and forested roads it was a gift straight for above that they stumbled upon a steed - and even more so a wagon. 

“We should slaughter it.” Brienne had suggested, resting a hand on Oathkeeper. 

“In your state?” he asked doubtfully, “She’d have better use getting weight off your leg.”

And so she did. Brienne rested in the cart and as they traveled through the Stormlands. Jaime took his place beside the steed, resting his good hand in between the animals ears. He would drift into the forest sometimes to fetch firewood, but Brienne know that if was more because he was restless with the slow pace of the battered old steed. 

The snow was the first thing to stunt the donkey’s speed. It was the first snows that Jaime had seen since the previous winter - which was a good twelve years back. He looked at the snowflakes in fascination, feeling the cold air bite his nose and ears. The storm quickly picked up pace. Soon Jaime was hiking knee deep into blank white nothingness and Brienne, still beside him in the wagon, huddled herself into a ball to dodge the cold. The wench’s oversized limbs had looked awkward when she tried to make herself so small.

Brienne assumed the same position at the gates of Daenerys’s camp. She gazed at him from behind heavily eyelids, doing her very best to ignore the swelling pain in her leg. When the guards started bickering above their heads she lost the patience that she so carefully contained with her knitted face.

“Azantys!” Brienne shouted up at the gaurds, “I am the Azantys m-mehsa! Ask Commander Brown Flea. U…udrāzmio timpa genes.”

“You speak High Valyrian?” Jaime asked in disbelief. 

“No.” she said. “A bit of Low Valyrian.” she admitted. Jaime raised his eyebrows.

“I speak it terribly.” she told him, “Or so I have been told.”

“Better than I anyone I know.” he said. Brienne grinned softly at his compliment.

A guard poked his head out from the castle gate above, causing a clump of snow to tumble down onto the donkey. The soldier removed his helm, and Jaime saw that his face was dark, darker than Jaime had ever seen. Jaime gasped.

“Kesi rual Azantys-mehsa nāejot entrot, yn daor se vasrie voktys. Māzigon siri!” 

The tongue continued and although Brienne had not the slightest idea what the Unsullied was saying, she shouted up: “Kessa!”, the Valyrian word meaning ‘yes’. 

The wench seemed desperate to get out of the blizzard. She sat up straight in the wagon when the heavily gates opened. The donkey trudged through and its large ears only just fit under the icicles that hung from arched door. 

A beefy man stopped Jaime by the forearm. “Not him, Azantys-Mehsa.”

“He is a Septor.” Brienne lied, “He saved my life.” She gestured to her log-sized swollen thigh. To convince the soldier further, Brienne revealed her bare skin, which flared angry red in contrast to the snow. 

“This skinny man, a priest?” the Unsullied questioned.

“He is a good man, I assure you. He saved my life, Commander, and this child.” Brienne lifted hood from the bundle at Jaime’s breast. A mop of sandy-brown curls stuck out from under the fabric and the Unsullied gave it a disapproving glare. 

It had been Jaime’s idea to save the child. 

They had taken shelter one night in a barn. Surprisingly, the wooden structure was still standing despite the raging winds of the snowstorm, but that was where its wholeness ended. The stone farmhouse had two adult bodies hanging from high windows. More corpses littered the field in front of the farm, as well as two slaughtered horses which lay half-decayed in the ice. 

It was the scene of a massacre - a raid unlike Jaime had ever seen. It was known that soldiers got desperate during times of war, but he had never seen slaughtered kin. Not just any kin, but small children. His throat closed in when he saw a babe - not older than a year - laying cold and dead in the frost. 

Brienne, more stubborn than ever, insisted on burying the children.

“The storm will not allow a fire, but I must honour them else wise.”

“You cannot possibly bury them all.” he told her, but she knew he would. There at least ten murdered children outside on the grass and even the wench with her brawny arms could not manage that amount of shallow graves in one night. He had no choice but to assist her in her task.

The child was concealed under a thicket of trees when Jaime found it. He picked it up, shook the ice from its rags and pulled the body it to his chest. 

It was uncomfortably heavy in his arms. Jaime realised then that he had not held a child since Tyrion was a babe. As he was never allowed near his own three children, Jaime found the creature in his arms quiet strange. He swayed the child’s dead weight onto his hip and was taken aback by how it fell onto him - whole in trust. Trusting a complete stranger.

Brienne looked cautiously at the child, as unsure about the thing as he was. 

“Jaime.” she said faintly, “I don’t think…”

“She is.” he said, raising the child’s face for Brienne to see. 

Brienne stared at it, her blue eyes calculating. The curls concealing its face were white with snowflakes. The child was only just breathing and was colder than the biting cold winter winds. Its skin made it seem too white to be living; but then Brienne compared its completion to Jaime’s and was left indifferent. They agreed to give the child to someone at Daenerys’s camp for it was a sure miracle for the seven gods that the child was still alive.

“Mehsa’s camp is no place for children. No such place for the praisers of the false gods.”

“Let the Dragon Queen decide that for herself.” Jaime said, “We have urgent business with the queen and her hand.” 

The Commander narrowed his eyes, but let his grasp on Jaime’s arm slip. Together with the donkey, a group of Unsullied lead them through the castle gates.

Poddingfield was a humble stronghold belonging to House Peasebury - a family Jaime had never heard of. The castle stood in between the sharp vales on the edge of the Kingswood. The forest surrounding the stronghold was stacked to the brim with the pavilions and campsites belonging to Daenerys’s army. 

Jaime acknowledged to himself that it was a wise place to set up camp. He would never think to look here for the enemy’s camp. It was far away from the Kingsroad, and the hills and the tall beech trees provided ample cover from the eyes of passers. If Brienne had not pointed exactly where to go, he and his army would never have found the camp. My ex-amy, he reminded himself.

Jaime became overly conscious of the Unsullied soldier’s long spear, and the fact that the soldiers had confiscated his dagger and Brienne’s Oathkeeper. He subconsciously hovered his stump over Brienne’s shoulder as she plodded and grunted with her leg.

They were lead into a rather pathetic hall which the soldiers called “the great hall” and told to wait for the Queen. Jaime helped Brienne into a seat next to the fire. And there they waited. With the sixteen eyes of eight Unsullied keeping them company. 

Jaime took the bundle in his arms and placed it in a chair. The child’s head hung limp from its body, and made him think that the child was dead - or busy dying - as Brienne suspected. Even though Jaime had fed the little girl through her unconscious lips, she had not woken since the night they found her in the forest. But she kept breathing, rather feebly, but breathing non the less.

Brienne watched Jaime remove the top layers of his clothes and pack it around the child. 

“What?” he asked when he caught her looking.

“Nothing.” she grunted. 

He pulled his very handmade tunic off. 

Jaime had carved up a piece of white canvas into some form of a garment to hide his Lannister crimsons. Covering his armour would not only provide anonymity from passer-byres, but also cover from Daenerys’s dragons, who were trained to target soldiers wearing red.

“What do you think?” he had asked one night, standing and lifting his arms to his side to show her his hard work.

“I think you look like a pavilion.” she had told him, “Or a granny in a frock.”

He gasped in mock-offence, gazing down at his body, but refusing to abandon his canvas carvings.

“Was that a jape, my lady?” He smirked. 

“No bigger a jape than you are when you wear that thing.” And then he had grinned, full and wide with his teeth showing. She never recalled seeing him she pleased. Her chest had fluttered.

“Is Queen Daenerys quiet on her way yet?” Jaime asked.

“Maester Tarly is on his way.” a solider spoke, “Help for the child and for your leg, Azantys-mehsa.” 

“Thank you, Ser.” Brienne said. Jaime was not a patient man, and the wait was rather long. The tense silence of the room was broken a half hour later.

“My point is, the Unsullied and the Dothraki respect her. They would die for her. We could fight on thousand petty battles, wait out winter and their loyalty would not abrade.” spoke a voice.

“I agree with you on that,” said another with an almost music ring to his words, “but even we don’t have enough food to last the Long Night. And never mind Cersei’s pathetic little army. They will die out long before our’s. In fact, Grey Worm’s last raven said that your brother retreated from the Battle for the Bronzegate with his tail between his legs.” the eunuch paused as he stepped into the hall, and Varys’s eyes fell onto Jaime’s. 

“Lady Tarth.” he greeted, “Lord Commander Lannister.”

The Imp hopped down the stairs with his stunted legs. Then, the brothers were eye-to-eye. “Jaime.” Tyrion breathed, astonished. 

Jaime took in the lines on his little brother’s face, the unkept beard and the wild hair. His brother gave the impression that he was a madman, or a drunk. Tyrion’s mismatched eyes enhanced the fact, but the Imp looked no less happy to see his own kin.

“Are you a fucking idiot?” he whispered, “She will hang you. Get out of here!”

“I never was the bright one.” Jaime said calmly, with non of the urgency of Tyrion’s words.

“Clearly.” the dwarf perplexed, and there was a brief moment of silence.

“Ser Jaime-“ Varys began.

“I never though I would see you again.” Jaime gasped, the strain evident in his voice, “And I promised Cersei that I would kill you if I ever saw you again. ‘Slice you in half’ was my words.”

“Yet here you are.” Tyrion smiled.

“I never was the honourable one either.” 

“Are there honourable Lannisters?” Varys asked Brienne as the brothers embraced. “That is news to me.”

“Brienne of Tarth!” growled something from the corner of the room. The two Lannisters, the eunuch and the maiden turned their heads. Jaime was convinced that the man was a bear for a moment, and reached for his non-existent sword at his hip.

“What the fuck?” the man continued, “Who did this to you? Can you still fight?”

Jaime’s instinct was to smack the thing’s paws off of Brienne. The man had savage red hair and two axes in each of his hands. The man looked like he could hurt her in her vulnerable state.

“Was it this fucker?” the baritone demanded, turning to Jaime, “Do you do this to her?”

The man’s fists balled Jaime’s shirt and pulled. 

“Tormund-“

“You’re a fucking Lannister!” the Wildling growled, revelling the bright red armour underneath Jaime’s flaxen tunic.

“That is Cersei Lannister’s other brother.” came the cool voice who Jaime vaguely recognised as Ayra Stark. She seemed to emerge from the shadows, like a phantom, with a fine-looking dagger in hand, “The Kingslayer who crippled my brother.”

“You’re the fucking sisterfucker?” The welding raged. 

Before Jaime really knew what was going on, the Unsullied had grasped him from all sides. The pulled hard and prodded him with the tips of their spears. The redhead Wilding was standing with a protective hand around Brienne's shoulders, practically growing at Jaime.

“Please, if you could stop seizing him. You do not know the full story-“ Tyrion tried diplomatically. 

Jaime’s attempts were more straightforward: “Get off, bastards!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Boots echoed across the room, “Let go of the man.” she commanded, and Jaime’s eyes fell on the infamous Targaryen herself.

His first through was that she was the picture of Rhaella Targaryen. But upon seeing the sharp gaze of her eyes, she bore more resemblance to Aerys. Jaime shook the arms of the guards free and hovered to the centre of the room. 

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” someone announced, “the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, rightful Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

“Your Grace.” he bowed briefly, “I am Jaime Lannister.”

He expected some kind a reaction from the Dragon Queen after revealing his identity. Jaime did after all murder the girl’s father. Instead, her eyes remained a clean slate, free of any judgement.

“Your Grace, I beg for a private meeting between Your Grace, myself and Jaime so we might discuss this with less tension.”

“Here is fine, Tyrion.” 

Daenerys’s boots clinked until she stopped right in front of Jaime. They shared a hard look.

“You are either very desperate, Kingslayer, or very lacking in wits to come here begging for my mercy.”

“With all due respect, I seek none of your mercy. I am merely here for negotiations.”

“Merely here for negotiations, your grace.” corrected a stern voice, “Address your queen properly.”

“But she is not my queen.” Jaime said simply. Tyrion glared at him and Brienne was tempted to get up and smack him silly.

“But your sister is?” Daenerys asked cooly. “Or am I mistaken? I heard somewhere that she is your wife.”

Jaime flinched under the pressure of all the faces in the room, feeling desperately uncomfortable with the accusation and the mention of Cersei. 

Abruptly, he changed the subject: “My sister is no more the rightful leader than Robert Baratheon was.” he said, the words heavy in his chest, “She no better a leader than the Mad King.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows.

“So you are no longer loyal to Queen Cersei?” Tyrion asked.

“I am here for negotiations between Daenerys and myself. I do not represent my Queen here. Nor do I represent the Lannister army, or the people of King’s Landing. I have come as myself, and myself alone.”

There was a hustle of whispers in the room and Jaime met Tyrion’s eye. A look of confusion clouded his face, but even more so relief. A small smile filled his scarred face and Jaime found himself returning it. 

“Your- your Grace, Lord Tyrion - I mean Lord Hand… I was sent by Commander Brown Flea to tend to someone’s wounds?” A fat maester stood at the door, looking worried with the amount of important people in front of him.

“You must be Samwell Tarly.” Tyrion greeted, “Jon has told me a lot of good things about you. Alas, who requires the Maester?”

“Over here!” the Wilding announced. “My Brienne-“

My Brienne. Jaime frowned deeply at the ginger freak in his furs. 

“Maester Tarly.” Jaime chipped in, “My traveling companion, Lady Brienne, she is badly injured. She received a near-fatal cut across her thigh. See, her leg is swollen and she had lost a lot of blood. I tended her wounds but she requires decent dressings, milk of the poppy, the experienced touch of a healer. Oh, and then there’s the babe too.”

“The babe?” Tarly asked hesitantly. 

“What babe?” Tyrion asked.

“The babe that this sisterfucker stole.” Tormund said in a low voice.

“I did not steal-“

“Is it alive?” the Maester asked anxiously. “It looks very sickly.”

“Ser Jaime found the girl in the snow.” Brienne told the room, “I was not sure the child was even breathing, but Ser Jaime insisted on keeping it. We fed it, kept it as warm as we could, but I am doubtful that the child will remain breathing for much longer.”

“When did you find the child?”

“Three days ago.”

“She needs substance,” Sam declared, “Right now. Send to the kitchens for a serving wench. Soup… and hardbreads. Warm milk, too. Bring the food to my study. Lady Brienne, if you would follow.”

Jaime, who kneeled beside Tarly, rushed to help Brienne. He was obstructed by the Wildling. 

“I can manage, Sisterfucker.” the man said, pulling his face in something that Jaime guessed was supposed to be a grin. The Wilding surprised Jaime by sweeping the wench up into his arms and walking to the door. He seemed satisfied at winning. But winning what exactly? 

Brienne shot Jaime a sympathetic look as they left the room. He felt suddenly bare with the wench and the babe gone.

“You must be hungry after so much travel.” Daenerys stated, “It is quiet cold out there.”

“I can assure you it is.” Jaime said.

“Queen Daenerys has recently returned from an excursion with her dragons. She knowns how bitter the snowstorm is.” Varys informed him.

“Right. My apologies.” Jaime said. 

An awkward silence filled the room. Tyrion’s head flickered between focusing on his Queen and his brother. Daenerys could not take her harsh eyes off of Jaime’s. 

He noticed that they were violet, almost white in the light of the hall. She looked like a true Targaryen. He refused to lower his gaze, but found it hard not to bend her pressure. Cold and commanding, he thought, so like Cersei. 

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“At ease, Lord Varys.”

“I say we allow Lord Lannister take a bath. Let him defrost in your Grace’s hospitality. A bath, perhaps, and some proper furs. We can discuss the politics over supper tonight.”

“A private supper.” Tyrion specified.

“Yes. With limited guests including only the four of us and the Lady Missandei.”

“What about Lady Brienne?”

“Lady Tarth is foot soldier, Jaime.”

“Who you people aught to have knighted already.” Jaime said. “She will help aid my story.”

“That is acceptable” Daenerys said, “But only if she is well enough to attend. My Lords.” she addressed them before cutting across the room.

“And Tyrion, do not discuss anything with the Kingslayer in private. I want to hear whatever secrets he tells you.” the Queen said. She departed with a knowing smile on her face.


End file.
